


a haunting that speaks across waters

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, I KNOW THIS LOOKS A MESS, M/M, hahahhahahhhaha idek what thisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:11:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: For a while, it's all right. It's more than all right. It's chest thumping, shallow breathing, quiet comfort all right. For a while.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> OK SO THIS IDEA CAME FROM LIKE FOREVER AGO w the carraville exchange and Shaz's prompt: " I'm down for fic about their early days at their respective clubs" and I was struck by how ridiculously similar Scholesy and Michael were (smol and dumb) but also different (Michael the one to leave, Scholesy the one to always stay behind) AND YEH ok and then it just ballooned into a ridic number of ships anyway have this im sorry 4 how bad this is shaz ;-;

This is how you meet:

It's 1986 and you're playing Bury Juniors on a Sunday in a park. You don't know anything about them except that they can be beaten. Butty gives you a wink and a nod as he walks by, as well as a cheeky slap in an area you'd rather he not touch. You look at Bury's centre-half, a thin, gangly boy with a haircut almost worse than yours and a raging fire burning in his eyes. He catches you looking and snorts. This is normal. Most teams wouldn't make much of a four-foot ginger striker, but you have ninety minutes to show them why they're wrong.

He's good and you're better. That's the way it works and that's the way it'll always work, you and your simple football, how you see the space like a map in your head and arrows pointing the way. You slip past him and put the ball into the net once, twice, four feet and a mean right boot. You beat him and his brother and chip the keeper with a ball so beautiful everyone can only stand and watch. The fire's still in his eyes, but there's disbelief and awe mixed in with the way he yells at you. It's strangely satisfying, although so is the sight of him and Butty kicking each other to pieces.

Your side gets a corner and you muscle in with the big lads, most of whom don't seem to mind you. That's how you get all your goals; not through skill, or talent, just jumping higher than anyone would expect. Except he comes over and towers over you, and you scowl. "You think I'm a threat?" 

"Everybody's a threat when we're going to win," he replies, riled up and on edge, like a ball bursting at the seams with sheer will. He glances at the stands and you look over to see a few nondescript men in the corner, one of whom has forgotten to cover the United crest on his shirt pocket. Oh, you see. That's why he burns. 

You win the game easily and you get man of the match, which is always stupid because you never know what to do with the attention. He packs up with his brother and gives the stands another look and you don't suppose you'll see him again. 

"That fucking Neville," Butty complains on the bus back. "Never shuts up. You're playing football, you're not on fucking  _ Question Time _ ." 

"Have you ever watched  _ Question Time _ ?" you snipe, and Butty smacks you over the head with his shin guard. Neither of you mention him again, but when you're home you keep remembering the way his eyes burned, almost as if you wished yours would do the same thing (- or worse, that one day someone's would burn for you).

 

-

 

This is how you meet: 

It's 1996 and United win the FA Cup against Liverpool. It's 1996 and you win the FA Youth Cup for Liverpool. Make no mistake,  _ you _ do this; it's your hat trick against United, your second one against Palace, your equaliser against a West Ham team of Ferdinand and Lampard. The way you move is like the other players don't exist, and how many goals you let in doesn't matter when you're there to score more. 

It's because of this that you don't notice him at first. Some time before the semi-final you finally see him, the centre-half, looking at you. Sort of tall and sort of stocky, with a haircut that probably cost fifty p from the corner shop and an intensity to his stare that seems to burn. You ask Andy what his name is, like you've never seen him before. Andy laughs. "That's Carra," he says, rolling his eyes. "The Everton bloke. Tragic." 

It's only when he says  _ Everton  _ that you remember the Lee Duncan and the blue shirt at training. You force his hand the next time you catch him staring, tilt your head and ask, "what?" 

He flushes. It's a strange reaction because you're certain you've never seen him not-yelling at anyone before. "You're fookin' small, aren't you," he says. 

You laugh. "I s'pose." 

"But you play well." He's almost shuffling his feet as he says this, and you feel like laughing even harder. 

"Thanks." 

"Not gonna tell me I play well too? Knew you didn't have any manners, you muppet." 

You play a blinder in the semi as you knew you would, but this time you watch out for him at the back, marshalling the area with his garbled Scouse accent,  _ fookin'  _ and  _ yer twat  _ and  _ shite  _ until the lads around him shivered and stood up straighter. You watch him wear the Liverpool shirt, but not the way everyone else does; like it's clinging to his skin. You're almost jealous, watching him, knowing that you'll never be like that. You want to be great. He wants to be good. 

Doesn't mean they don't go hand in hand, though.

 

-

 

You fall, but not in a way you knew was coming. He becomes your captain in the youth team and you find out that you would follow him anywhere. So would Butty, but it's different; theirs is a friendship and yours is - 

not simple. It confuses you where football usually never would. You're slightly relieved that on the pitch you don't have to deal with him all that often, different positions as you are, and it's only when he's down the right crossing inwards that you need to wait for him to find you. (And even then you want to swallow the lump in your throat when he grins at you after it goes in.) 

Butty thinks you're crazy. 

And you probably are, you think as well, watching him throw the ball against the wall over and over again. Watching the way he runs, always like he's about to die but always spurting on, dragging his feet forward and the concentration cutting his face like a knife. You aren't supposed to fall in love with boys, or with friends, not even good ones. You're only supposed to love football. And United. 

(Maybe that's why. They're the same thing, aren't they?)

It's during a mock interview that you finally realise: the human resources bloke asks, "who are your best friends at United?" and Gary combs his stupid centre parting out of his eyes and says, "Scholesy, Butty, my brother - " 

You only hear the first word. It echoes like a bell in your heart, sweet and pure, the taste of custard creams,  _ best friends _ .

 

-

 

You fall, the way both of you know was coming. He's not shy and you're not afraid and you can be everything together. In the years to come you will suspect that, perhaps, you were his source of hope; a lesson that if a midget could make it then anyone could. 

You discover his habits at away games when you room together - he offers them up to you almost jealously, and you're suddenly very aware how important these things are to him. You feel privileged, almost. How this is not meant for everyone. You smile when you're woken up at two in the morning and you can hear the TV on, unfamiliar language and his warmth pressed against you.

"Is Team Owen coming today?" he'd ask, swatting you on the back of your head with his socks. "Or have they finally found something better to do with their lives?"

His mum's never come down to watch a single game. He watches Team Owen bundle out of the Chrysler and surround you, ruffling your hair, your dad trying to hoist you on his shoulders (it gets harder and harder every year). "Come on, Carra," you yell at him, broad-faced, beaming. "Come over here, you muppet."

Your mum gives him one of her famous bone-crushing hugs and you join in, feeling his skinny, knotted muscles under your fingers. He looks over at you. You bury your head in his shoulder, loving him.

 

 

-

 

 

And  for a while, it's all right. It's more than all right. He comes and sits next to you on the bus, his big, dopey grin, slight wrinkles already creasing his forehead. You seek each other out on the pitch, defence and attack yet determined, somehow, to meet; his arm around your neck when you nod home the winner. You offer him crisps and top trumps cards. You want to write down the glow in his eyes when he sees you playing so well, so  _ well _ , like he's so proud of you his heart is going to burst.

For a while, it's all right. It's more than all right. It's chest thumping, shallow breathing, quiet comfort all right. For a while.

 

 

-

 

 

The first time he leaves, it's for your mate.

David is pulled up from London like a stone you're trying to skim across a pond, only it falls into the river with a dull, crashing thud. You get along fine with him and his bright gold hair and his prettiness. (You're a little envious but he tells you ginger hair is all the rage nowadays and it's such a terrible lie that you laugh anyway.) You like David, in your own way. And David likes you in his.

And  _ he  _ likes David in his.

It's not something you saw coming.

But it happens, anyway. The first time they room together. "Becks wakes up at sodding eleven," he complains to you over lunch, but David's sitting right beside him and elbows him in the ribs laughing. "It's not funny! Who the fuck wakes up at eleven?" 

"I do," David says, grinning at you like you're sharing a secret. You're not sure what to make of this, complicit in your own demise, watching Gary shake his head with a loving exasperation that used to come only when you hid his room keys. 

You tell yourself all sorts of things - it's just a phase, jealous isn't a good thing to be, there wasn't anything there anyway. He isn't  _ yours,  _ he's free to love anyone he likes, and he does love everyone, the way he runs to people and kisses them when they've snatched three points. It's part of him and it's one of the reasons why you love him (admit that to yourself one night, exhaled like a cloud of breath in winter, the only shock that you're not really surprised). But with David it's different; even Butty can see that. Defense and attack and they don't have to  _ try  _ to meet the way you do, because the right wing is theirs to rule.

You go on playing your games. You room with Phil instead, Phil who you adore, who you watch cooking shows with and convince to stay up for Match Of The Day. You collect pinpoint crosses from David and smash them into the back of the net, wait for Gary to run up, wait for him to kiss you. What else can you do? What else can you do.

 

-

 

The first time you leave, it's for his mate.

You've all known each other since you were fifteen, really, on and off. You and him and Stevie. He and Stevie have always been mates, Scousers born and bred, but it's the team and the stadium they pin their hearts to. You and he are something else, which makes you and Stevie - something else. 

1997 comes. He makes it into the first team for a while, then you burst onto the scene half a year later, your goal against Wimbledon gliding into the back of the net. Suddenly you're the next Robbie Fowler. Liverpool's saviour. Breathing life into a listless team, the world at your feet just like you'd always dreamed. Suddenly the smile on his face isn't the only - the greatest - thing when you score. The papers clamour for your name.

Of course he's happy for you. How could he not be? And of course you're happy for him, when he plays. But that's the question, see. You play twice the number of games he does in that season, and suddenly you're hanging out with Robbie, Macca, Other-Jamie. And Stevie.

That one falls into your lap when you'd least expected it. Stevie doesn't come into the team for another year, but when he does, it isn't the same long labour of love and the bench and the wintry nights in the stands that your Jamie went through. Redknapp gets injured and Stevie slides in, clean as you'd like. 

Maybe that's the difference. Stevie calls you Mickey and plays ISS '98 with you and suddenly it's two people, not one, who know all your secrets. And you think that Jamie is your best mate, will always be your best mate - but you can't fuck around with best mates, and Stevie happens to not-be one.

You kiss Stevie for the first time in the locker room. It's dark outside and everyone else has gone. There's a boy with a buzz cut and dark brown eyes, somewhere in Bootle, eating dinner maybe. There's another boy in front of you. You close your eyes and forget one.

 

 

-

 

 

You lose yourself in the football. It flows so easily from all of you, like it's magic at your fingertips and you couldn't stop if you tried. You're fucking tiny and can't tackle so he does your tackling for you. He can't score goals to save his life so you score them for him. And then there's everyone else, a well-oiled machine, whose thoughts you can almost hear in your head. You win your own treble. You don't tell him. You forget your own problems and try to find a way to make it work, burying everything in the red shirts you wear.

 

 

-

 

 

And then he says: "He's going to Madrid."

You look up. He's standing in the doorway of your room, his brow worn; you suspect it's not from the trophy celebrations the night before. Wordlessly you shift from where you're sitting on the edge of the bed and he comes to sit next to you. (Not now, you remind yourself, not when he needs you.)

"He told me yesterday," he says, leaning back and looking at the ceiling. "Barcelona are interested too, but he wants to go to Madrid." He says it all factual, like a newspaper report, like the thousands that you know will be written as soon as this gets out. He says it like it's going to happen regardless of what he believes.

"He's always wanted to play abroad," you remind him gently. 

"Yeah." 

"At least you won't have to deal with him endlessly rearranging your shirts anymore." 

He laughs, or maybe sobs, you can't really tell. You lean back and lie with him, shoulder to shoulder, trying to feed it into him with that touch: I'm still here, look at me. He says, "I liked them rearranged." 

David leaves on the first of July, 2003. It's been ten years.

 

-

 

And then you say: "I'm going to Madrid." 

"Fuck off," he replies almost immediately, disbelieving. You'd waited for Stevie to leave the room before telling, so it's just the two of you like it was always supposed to be. He's sat in front of the telly but now he's taken his eye off the game and he's looking at you a way you never want to be looked at again.

"They want me, Carra." You say it like you're proud, and you are; the biggest club in the world, the Galacticos, the Zidanes and the Rauls and the Beckhams and they want  _ you _ . 

"Well, we  _ need  _ you." His face is taut with restraint. What he means is that you've been Liverpool's top goalscorer since six seasons ago. What he also means, since you've known him for so damn long, is that he's not just talking about Liverpool.

"I have to do it." You hate the uncertainty in your voice.

"We'll get better. Listen. We'll win games and we'll win trophies. We'll win the Champions' League. We'll beat Madrid." 

"You won't." 

"We will," he says all stubborn, the red heating up his eyes again, his desperation, his belief, the way he doesn't even notice your pronoun change. The liverbird seared into his heart. You've never loved him as much as you love him then. You know you could stay, in that moment, just for him.

"Jamie," you say, soft. "Let me go." 

You leave on the thirteenth of August, 2004. It's been eight years.

 

-

 

Surely, you think - surely this must be your reward. All that waiting, all the late nights of tea and insomnia and having to drive around Manchester at three in the morning. It takes him time to come back, but what's more important is who he's coming back to. He fits into you simple.

Slowly, he sits next to you on the bus again. On the planes. You have breakfast every morning before the match together, just talking - no need for pretense. You haven't needed to put up a mask for the longest of times and it's a relief, even to you, you who have gotten so good.

It isn't all plain sailing, of course. You've come to expect that. He gets hit by injury at the end of the decade and you can't do anything about it, just play and watch and hurt for him. But he's still there in the stands in his suit and tie when you score That Goal against Barcelona. He's yelling for Makelele's head when you go down in the final, your nose broken and blood streaming down from a cut to your forehead. He's the first one to run to you, rain pouring down the back of his dress shirt, screaming into your ear  _ you deserve this _ , eyes lit up (almost) like how they'd been for David nine years ago. 

When he kisses you in the derby two years later, in front of the world, a weight lifts in your heart. 

You make it all the way to 2011. That isn't a bad run, is it? And he still loves United, doesn't he? And he still loves -

"I'm not going back," he laughs when you tell him about your decision to un-retire. "I'll kill off the side. We'll never win anything again." 

"Who 'm I gonna sit with?" you laugh too, but you're searching him for an answer.

"You'll be all right. Just try not to pretend you can still run." 

"Can't believe you're leaving me to face all these young blokes alone." 

"Giggsy's still there." 

"I know." 

"So what's bothering you?" 

You curl and uncurl your fist. "I dunno," you say at last, looking down at your sandwich while he grins. "You're leaving." 

"I'll never leave," he says seriously. You want more than anything to believe him.

 

-

 

Surely, you think, this was not how it was supposed to be.

Madrid is beautiful and there's always sunshine and you start less games than you would have started in Liverpool. Some of it is due to injury, and you bow your head and accept that, but some of you feels like you're watching the camera slowly draw back to reveal the staging behind your fairy tale. 

You ask Macca about it once. He can only shake his head and smile. 

Liverpool win the Champions' League.

So at the end of the season you up and leave, and you think maybe this is cowardly, the wrong decision, that people are going to want you to stay and fight. Only you realise there was another place you should have stayed at and fought, another decision which was the real wrong one, but.

You call him before Newcastle goes through. "Does Rafa want me?" you ask, trying to keep the begging out of your voice. You can see it if you try hard enough, the same dream you've always had - you and greatness, only the name of the club that changes. (Not entirely true - there's him, too.)

He sighs. "I don't know, mate. He's pretty happy with who we have." 

"Could you ask him?" 

"I can try." 

There are lots of other things you don't say - how are you, how is Stevie, have you missed me. It's only been a year. Maybe things haven't changed that much. Maybe he could still be yours.

It becomes two years. You call him again in the summer, the same question, the same reply. Three. Newcastle is black and white, not red all over. You pray for your one chance to make things right. 

Then you sign for United.

Stevie sends you a short text. Jamie sends you nothing. You realise, at last, how broken it is. 

"Does Hodgson want me?" you ask the next time you call, just to tell him without telling him that you still want to come - home - and he says no. No, Hodgson doesn't want you. Dalglish doesn't want you. Rodgers doesn't want you. 

You have the derby and that's all. The Mancs are naturally suspicious of you and their famous old guard trio never really takes you in, which kills off any chance you ever had. You drag your feet along the ground in front of the bench, watching him and Neville go toe to toe, wishing you were wearing the other shirt to back him up. You reach up to give him a hug as he walks by in the tunnel, but he turns a little so you half-catch him around the shoulder and then he's gone.

 

 

-

 

 

So: here you are. On the brink of happiness, or sadness, and sometimes you aren't sure which. You hang up your boots in 2013 and don't know what to do next, not yet forty and already old. Coaching crosses your mind briefly. Punditry stays longer. He is, after all, already there.

You end up at BT while he's at Sky, but you hold out hope. There'll be games you both cover; chances to be had.

 

 

-

 

 

At first you don't quite believe what you're seeing. You've known him your whole life - you can tell his moods in a glance - so when you first catch it your eyes widen a little. But there it is again. And again. He probably doesn't realise he's doing it, but his head tilts forward ever so slightly, his gaze flicks to the side whenever Carragher looks at him but stays straight and true when he isn't. The way his mouth is set into a slight frown but it isn't angry, just serious, listening to every single word. He's never looked at anyone - not even you - the way he looked at David.

You're losing him to a Scouser. The irony makes you laugh until your chest hurts.

The second time is a little easier, because you know how it's going to go, but that doesn't mean it breaks you any less. You watch them every week and every game, your fingers gripping at your own microphone. (Listen to me, you want to tell him, why the fuck d'you think I took up a job that'd require so much talking if it hadn't been for you?) It's the same story, exactly the same, this boy perhaps a little less blonde and a little more craggy, though with the serious dark eyes. A fucking cliche, but there you go; old men aren't exempt from falling in love.

He doesn't talk about it when you go watch Salford games together, nor did you expect him to. You might have brought it up once or twice but all he does is laugh it off. "He's a bit of a dick, isn't he?" he says, his voice coated in an affection only you can hear. "Can't believe I'm going to be stuck with him for the rest of my career." 

"You look happier," you almost say, but don't in the end. There's this bit on MNF where Carragher asks him if he's practiced kissing you and he cackles, rubbing the back of his neck all embarrassed. They're grinning at each other with their faces red, Carragher from asking the question and him from having to answer it, their faces all lit up like they thought the world wouldn't notice. For a split second you remember his hands on your face.

 

-

 

At first when they put him with a Manc you think you have a shot. Not just any Manc, but  _ Neville _ , who tried his best to avoid you even in the dressing room as if he might catch Scouse-cooties. This'll be all right, you tell yourself, your hand shaking though you don't know why; just watch.

You watch him watch Neville so close, his brow knitted like he's hanging on to every word, not wanting to miss one. You watch him lean in laughing when they're stood side by side at the big touchscreen, how their fingers inch closer towards each other and don't seem to move. You watch his mouth wrenched into a smile he can't even help when Neville uses his head as a ball. You watch that damn Fifa video. 

It's when you're wondering, bitterly, how he could offer up that same look he offered you all those years ago to Neville, that it hits you - he was never yours to lose, not from the moment you'd swapped red for white and rain for sun. You told him to let you go. You just didn't think he really would. 

Another thing that hits you: you deserve this.

You deserve every single minute of this, you and your greatness and your  _ stay in the bloody North all you want, but I want to be a star _ . He's got seven hundred games for the club he loves and you had a bench on a cold Tuesday night in Stoke. Life is strange like that, isn't it, you the one to leave him behind but he the one to move on.

So you bury your heart, take up commentary and try to bear all the stick that you get with good humour. "He's no Gary Neville," people say dismissively, and you feel like choking back a laugh, because you know more than anyone that you're not.

A final realisation, then: you hope this lasts. You see the way they banter with each other on twitter and the way Jamie's quieter when Gary comes back from Australia and you hope. You hope for his sake, for theirs, for yours, because you don't know if he could be broken again, and you don't know if you could watch.

 

-

 

The third time he leaves, it's a cold Wednesday morning in December and he's asked you over for breakfast. The last time you'd had breakfast was the morning after the West Brom game, so immediately you know something's up. He tells you straight (you've always appreciated that in him): "Valencia have asked me to be their manager." 

You continue eating your toast like you aren't bothered, even though the ground's just fallen out from under you with a quiet  _ thud _ . "When are you going?" you ask, because yes and no isn't even a question. This is your Gary, his strengths and flaws all on grotesque display for the newspapers which will come in time. A challenge is a challenge whether it's a bad idea or not.

"Lyon'll be the first." 

He peers at you, his spoon dangling over his bowl of cereal. You realise he hasn't touched it yet. "Go on, then," he says. You blink and look up at him, catching his gaze, his brown eyes kind. Perhaps he knows you better than you think.

"What?" 

"Tell me." 

That this is stupid. That he's going to be fucking destroyed, torn apart by the Mestalla and the cauldron of fans who will not love him because he hates Scousers. That he's going to fail. That you can't watch him fail. That you can't imagine not going to Salford games next to him. That you want, more than anything, for him to - 

"Don't go, then." 

His face softens. "I have to do it," he says. His hand reaches towards you then stays there, in the middle of the table like a compromise. "Phil's there. It's not been so bad for him." 

"Phil's different." Everybody loves him within two seconds of meeting him. Gary's an acquired taste (yours). Phil could bring Julie, but Gary belongs to someone who couldn't possibly go as well. And you would have thought, of all the people in the world, he would know what it was like to be left behind.

"You can't ask me to stay for you, Scholesy." His gaze is very bright and for a moment you think of how obvious you must have been, all this time. You shake your head, sadly, lovingly, swallowing anything else you could have said. 

"For him." 

He breathes in like he's been held underwater, only now surfacing for air.

 

-

 

You'd kind of expected him to call, but his voice when you hear it is still a shock. 'I'm sorry' is the first thing that you say, because you are. There's a pause on the other end of the line.

"He's not like you," he says obstinately, stubbornly, just as much to reassure himself. 

"No, he isn't." He doesn't want to be great, only different. And he probably - still - cares, the  _ actually alright  _ pointing itself out, a stamp on the fact for the future. He's not you. He's not even Beckham.

There's another, longer pause. You can hear his breath filtering down the phone line, shallow like the first time. "Spain's a shit country," he says at last, giving you a short, sharp laugh that tells you everything you need to know. 

"He won't leave you behind, Carra," you say.

"How can you be sure?" 

"He's been there too, you know." 

His voice is low, tired, like he's been awake for too long. "Yeah," he says. Quiet. "I know."

 

 

-

 

 

So: you wait, your fingers curled into your palms, the Mestalla bright and loud before you. You wait with your heart dyed as red as his is, watching the figures in the dugout with your promise on your lips. You wait for him to find home again with his dark-eyed Northern boy. You wait with hope in your heart, because he of all people deserves to be whole. This has never been for you, he has never been for you; but that's okay, you think, sitting in the studio looking down. Better to have been by his side than not at all. 

The white-clad figures pound their boots into the grass, and you wait.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- all the dates and games and scores etc are accurate bc im a smol dumb nerd  
> \- Team Owen was a [real thing](www.express.co.uk/sport/football/394515/EXCLUSIVE-Liverpool-legends-Jamie-Carragher-and-Michael-Owen-on-life-after-football) bc they're dorks  
> \- Gaz did put scholesy [second](https://twitter.com/GNev2/status/266455911625797632) so there's that   
> \- On the defence/attack - Scholesy did actually play forward in the beginning of his career rather than midfield  
> \- The bit regarding trebles - Liverpool did win their own sorta treble in 01 with Michael playing a huge part in it // United's treble needs no introduction *angelic face*  
> \- Carra did [p much beg Michael to stay](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-2296083/Jamie-Carragher-I-told-Michael-Owen-snub-Real-Madrid-stay-Liverpool.html) istg  
> \- Scheville did sit together on planes and shit (and Beville used to do it before that)  
> \- Michael [did actually call Carra every season](http://www.independent.co.uk/topics/liverpoolfc/michael-owen-begged-jamie-carragher-to-help-secure-liverpool-return-before-manchester-united-move-a7226986.html) to ask if Liverpool wanted him back and I found this so sad wtf  
> \- tbh gaz did hug michael after the derby win so they probably were friendly but he probably was lowkey 'u scouse bastard'  
> \- THEY WERE BOTH AT BT AND _THEY_ WERE BOTH AT SKY HOW WEIRD IS THAT  
>  \- idk i always think why would scholesy take a job he'd have hated??? a) it's the only way he can stay in touch w football and b) gaz  
> \- The bit about Gary coming back from Australia was to do w his dad  
> \- BT have European rights so I think they must've covered the Valencia game and the two of them would probably have been there??  
> \- [title](http://aaww.org/three-poems-justin-chin/)
> 
> thanks for reading <3


End file.
